


bearing north

by skuls



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 15:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14108370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: Prompt: "I’m so disappointed by the lack of hurt/comfort this season. Could you please fix it a little?"





	bearing north

**Author's Note:**

> set between rm9 and nothing lasts forever.

She tastes blood in her mouth, maybe from where she fell. She drags herself off of the ground, wincing at the pain in her head. The suspect’s footfalls are far away now, from where she was shoved down into the empty pool. She touches the sore spot where her head smacked the concrete and hisses with pain. **  
**

“Scully!” Mulder’s voice, echoing frantically from somewhere above her. His dress shoes pounding the stairs of the pool. “Scully?”

“I’m here,” she croaks, pushing herself into a sitting position. Nausea clogs up her throat and she swallows it back, blinks owlishly in the dark as Mulder approaches her.

“Scully,” he whispers, eyes full of fear as he kneels beside her, his fingers brushing her cheek. “You all right?” he asks softly, tucks some loose hair behind her ear, brushes his fingers over the bruise along her jaw where the suspect punched her. She nods, dizzy, quivering on the cold concrete, reaches up to cover her hand with his.

Mulder grips her hands to help her to her feet. She wobbles, his arms around her keeping her from toppling back over. She’s tense in his awkward embrace, still not quite out of the panic mode that came from when she was jumped inside the house, but she presses a hand to his chest for traction, breathing shakily.

“He’s still at large,” she reminds him.

“The cops out front will stop him,” Mulder says comfortingly.

She nods. Her skull is still pounding, but she feels limp in his arms, safe. “I tried to fight him off,” she says. “I almost did. But he got angry and shoved me into the pool. I hit my head.”

Mulder shifts her in his arms, trying to move to a spot where he can check her head injury, and she winces as she is jostled, the nausea returning. “Do you think you have a concussion?” he asks softly, brushing his fingers over her hairline. She shakes her head. “We need to get you to a doctor and check,” he says. She nods, gritting her teeth. She is tired and sore and she wants to go home. She lets herself sag against him for a moment, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. Mulder’s nose presses into her hair, his hands warm on her back. “You ready?” he whispers, and she nods.

Mulder’s arm around her waist, they move together out of the pool. He finds her gun on the ground beside the lip of the pool and scoops it up. Her coat swishes around her ankles as they walk through the chilly air. One of the cops is scraping their perp off the ground. A section of the concrete is still stained with his latest victim’s blood. Scully swallows.

She manages to walk steadily to the car; she could probably do it without Mulder holding her up, but she isn’t going to argue with him. She sits in the passenger seat of the car and checks her bruises. The killer punched her a few times in the face, once in the stomach. Her elbows are scraped from the fall and her back is aching. She doesn’t have as many back problems as Mulder does, but this is sure to make it seize up for a while. She’d actually take this over what that guy had planned for her, though; she figures he attacked her in an attempt to either use her as leverage to escape or to kill her. Either way, a three-foot tumble into an empty pool feels like child’s play compared to that.

Mulder finishes clearing things up with the local police and walks over to the car. Scully closes her door, leaning back in the seat and buckling her seatbelt. He wraps his hand around hers as soon as he climbs in beside her. “You okay?” he whispers softly, squeezing her fingers. She nods.

Mulder squeezes her hand again before taking it away. The car starts. Scully keeps her eyes closed and pictures home, their warm bed with the fleecy comforter and the sheets freshly washed.

—

She doesn’t have a concussion, but the doctor says she’ll have a headache, along with other soreness, for the new few days. Luckily, she has the weekend to rest, and Mulder insists they can have more time if they need it. She pops three ibuprofen outside in the car and prays for pain relief soon. “Take me home, Mulder,” she mutters as soon as he climbs into the car.

“Where home?” he asks cautiously, and her eyes fly open in surprise. “Bathsheba… home? Or…”

“Mulder, there isn’t a Bathsheba home anymore,” she says tiredly. She’s been staying with him for the past few weeks while she figures things out, tries to get in touch with the doctor who subletted her the place and stayed in India two years longer than he’d said he would. “My Zeumz blew a hole in it. It’s unlivable. Not the place I want to go recover in.” She’s gone home with him after the Russian assassins and after their son and after her house caught on fire, she’s spent several nights there anyway, from date nights to work nights she accidentally fell asleep during… how could he think…

“I just didn’t want to presume,” Mulder says, watching her carefully.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “There’s nothing to presume, Mulder,” she says. “Take me home.”

He’s looking at her with the soft eyes she’s seen often since they’ve come back together on the X-Files. He takes her home.

—

She showers with Mulder’s shampoo even though she has bottles sitting right on the shelf. Mulder is waiting for her in bed, and she doesn’t have to ask him to hold her. His arms are wrapping around her as soon as she climbs in beside him, gently and avoiding the sore spots. He presses his mouth into her hair and mumbles, “You okay?”

She nods, brushing her fingers over his chest.

This feels too much like what happened after she was attacked in the hospital, after Mulder slit a man’s throat for her. The string of events after the visions from William—Jackson—had felt ten times worse than this, what with the fear of losing Mulder and her son being in danger, seizures and twisted metal and shattering glass, rough hands around her throat, squeezing. She hadn’t slept easily for days.

Mulder held her like this then, too, but with a tentativeness that came from the recent separation between them. She’d resented it then, had watched him nearly die and knew it was their future if she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t want to lose him. She doesn’t want to lose him. There had been a time when she’d thought they would both be safe, that they’d never have to worry about losing each other again.  

Mulder breaks the silence, says into her hair, “When you shouted… in the house… I thought he was going to…” There is fear in his voice, fear in his hand crumpling the edge of her pajama shirt.

“I know,” she says softly. “I did, too.” The attack had terrified her. All she could see were the autopsy results, wonder if she was next. There was a time when she thought she’d never have to almost die again.

He kisses her hair, strokes his hand up and down her side. “We’re too old for this, Scully,” he says softly. “These near-death experiences are going to give me a heart attack.”

She closes her eyes against the pain in her head, brushes her fingers over the inside of his wrist. Remembers that he will die when the world ends if she and William cannot save him, and the end of the world could come any day now. She nods. Crawls closer, grimacing at the stiffness in her side, and presses a hand to his side. She rises up on one elbow and leans down to kiss him.

Mulder’s hand comes up, with a bit of surprise, to cup the side of her face, his mouth falling open under hers. She kisses him softly, lowers her forehead to brush against his. Lowers herself to her side, wincing at the pain in her stomach, her head on his shoulder. He strokes her hair a little, rubs his chin against her forehead and mumbles, “What was that for?”

She finds his hand somewhere between their bodies, kisses his fingers. “I just wanted to do that,” she says. “If something had… happened tonight.” She swallows hard. “I don’t want something to happen without having done that.”

She has kissed him before, even recently, but it hasn’t been enough. She’s been staying with him since her house blew up and they’ve been chaste as roommates. They’ve been in a perpetual state of question since they came back on the X-Files. Schrodinger’s marriage.

Mulder kisses her forehead. “You smell nice,” he mutters.

“It’s your shampoo,” she says, burrowing into his neck. “So, yeah.”

“How egotistical of me,” he says, and she chuckles softly.

His breathing is unsteady, just a little. “I’m glad you’re okay, Scully,” he says softly. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I…”

She tips her head back to look at him, and he’s already leaning down to kiss her again. Gentle with a little bit of desperation. “I know,” she says against his mouth. “I know.” She kisses his cheek, the side of his nose.

Mulder tucks the blanket around her, fluffs the pillow a little. “Get some rest, honey,” he says and she nods, rolling to face away from him and leaning back into his chest. He drapes an arm over her side. She adjusts to try and relieve pain, closes her eyes.

She’s been planning on moving back in. Planning on telling him, but she keeps chickening out. She doesn’t know why. She has been staying with him for three weeks now. They have been in this strange relationship limbo for a couple of years now. She is ready, and she thinks he is, too.

She’s ready to say it right now, lying in bed with him as he holds her with the blankets tucked around her, but she’s so sleepy. It’s already past midnight and the pain pills they gave her at the doctor are making her sleepy. _I’ll tell him soon,_ she decides, snuggling into the blankets.  _Soon_.


End file.
